5 Abbey Road (Broken Streets #1) Read online

  5

  ABBEY

  ROAD

  Marita A. Hansen

  Copyright

  5 Abbey Road

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright 2018 © Marita A. Hansen

  Editor: John Hudspith

  Cover photography by Anders Nord

  and sourced from unsplash.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means whatsoever without the written permission of the author, nor circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. For subsidiary rights inquiries email: [email protected]

  All characters, names, places, and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, or real persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  CONTENTS

  Copyright Page

  1 Jackson

  2 Sarah

  3 Kane

  4 Sarah

  Behind the Hood Sample

  About the Author

  More Books by Marita A. Hansen

  UK English is used due to the New Zealand setting.

  All other variations are also due to where the short story is set, as well as the characters’ cultural and socio-economic backgrounds. This is why some characters use different speech patterns from others.

  1

  Jackson

  Jackson didn’t want to be here. He’d pleaded with them to take him back, but they refused to. It was almost eleven o’clock on a Saturday night, and they were supposed to be home four hours ago. He was sitting in between his brothers down an alleyway in one of the roughest neighbourhoods in Auckland, shivering like crazy, winter in full swing.

  Kane shoved the spray can at Jackson’s chest. “Do it, wussburger,” his half-brother said. Actually, he was also his cousin, their family situation rather complicated. They had the same father, one who’d gotten two sisters pregnant. He’d divorced Kane’s mother, ending up marrying Jackson’s one. Actually, complicated didn’t cut it when it came to explaining their family, a complete mess a much better description.

  Anyway, Kane was seventeen, three years older than him, with dreadlocks and a stud in his tongue. His brother reckoned the piercing looked cool, saying it got all the girls ‘juicy’. Jackson didn’t know what Kane meant by ‘juicy’, but he thought it looked gay.

  Mick, his full brother, was on the other side of him, belching and egging Jackson on. His real name was Michael, but everyone called him Mick. Yeah, it wasn’t a coincidence. They were named after Michael Jackson, their mum’s taste in music the cause of many irritating jokes.

  “C’mon, you pusssy,” Mick slurred. He was a couple of months younger than Kane, although everyone assumed he was the oldest since he was so big, looking more like twenty than seventeen.

  “Dooo it.” Mick burped, making Jackson wrinkle his nose in disgust. Mick was pissed off his tree, aka drunk as a skunk and smelling like one too. Kane had swiped a six pack from their dad, which Mick had swiped off Kane, drinking the lot without even sharing one can. He could never share, especially when it came to anything he could put in his big fat gob.

  “No, and you stink,” Jackson whined. “I wanna go home!”

  “I wanna go home,” Kane mimicked. “You sound like a li’l baby.” He reached for Jackson’s hand. “C’mon, baby, I’ll hold your hand.”

  Jackson jerked his hand away, wincing at how loud Kane was. His brother always spoke at full volume... No, come to think of it, he’d only gotten loud in the past year or so. Kane loved being the centre of attention, always wanting people to notice him. Girls usually did, everyone else just wanted him to shut the hell up.

  “Piss off, Kane,” he spat, wishing he hadn’t gone out with them. Though, it served him right, because he knew what they were like.

  “I told ja to call me Tag,” Kane growled.

  Jackson rolled his eyes. Last year, his brother had started insisting that they call him by his favourite pastime. Kane liked to leave his mark on everything, whether it was a fence, garage door, or a warehouse. He used to tag things with the name KATAL, which was a combination of his first and their last name: Kane Talich. Now, his tag was literally TAG, his brother not exactly inventive—or bright. Kane had to repeat Year Eleven due to failing all but Art and Music.

  “That’s a lame name,” Jackson muttered.

  “No, it’s not, it’s cool, so call me it.”

  Jackson grinned. “Okay, Fag.”

  “You li’l shite!”

  Kane pushed him onto the concrete and started pounding him with his fists. Jackson covered his face and swiped out at Kane, doing his best to protect himself, but some blows still got through, causing him to yell out in pain.

  “Oi! Stop hitting my mini-me, that’s my job.” Mick shoved Kane away, falling on top of Jackson.

  Jackson yelled out even louder, Mick’s enormous weight crushing him. “Get offa me,” he gasped, trying to push him off. “You’re squashing me, you fat bastard.”

  Mick hit him across the head. “I’m not fat!”

  Kane started laughing “Yes, you are,” he said, now on his feet. “You’re a big fat pig.”

  Mick pushed off Jackson and lunged for Kane.

  “Big fat pig,” Kane continued to taunt, as he dodged Mick’s drunken swipes, the two looking like clowns under the moonlight.

  A siren blasted out of nowhere, like a lightning bolt shooting through the clear night, causing all three of them to freeze. After a minute it disappeared, allowing Jackson to breathe out in relief. He was already in a shitload of trouble because of Kane and Mick, he didn’t need to be hauled back home by the cops to make things a thousand times worse.

  “I’m outta ’ere.” Kane snatched up his bag and walked off, probably even more afraid of the cops than Jackson was. Kane had been warned that if he got caught tagging again, he’d be hauled off to a boot camp for troubled youths. Kane wasn’t troubled, he was just a dickhead.

  Mick picked up the spray can that Kane had left behind and stumbled after him, yelling out as he tripped over his own feet. Crash! Bang! Splat onto the concrete, not quite face first, but close. But instead of cursing up a storm, Mick started giggling like a little girl, his laughter punctuated by snorts. He pushed up and continued to stumble after Kane, who’d stopped to wait for him. The two were extremely close, always watching each other’s backs, regardless of the way they fought. Sometimes it made Jackson jealous, which was why he hung out with them more than he should, not wanting to be left out.

  Jackson rushed after them, also not wanting to be left alone in Claydon at night. He didn’t know why his brothers had chosen the shittiest neighbourhood to tag, since the place was already graffitied to death. Not like their own neighbourhood was much better, but he knew Wera, whereas he had no interest in knowing Claydon.

  They walked past a party on the other side of the fence. Loud cheers and shouts of “Chug, chug, chug!” rang out through the cold winter’s night, accompanied by an R&B backbeat. The lighting from the house lit up part of the walkway, illuminating the graffiti on the fence, where tags fought for dominance.

  Kane stopped in front of one of the tags, muttering, “Man, that bastard gets his name everywhere.”

  After a quick shake of his spray can, Kane having many, he popped the lid and sprayed Small in front of Jock69, also changing the J to a C. He put the can into his backpack and walked off, laughing.

  Jackson stuffed his cold hands into his bomber jacket. His teeth started to chatter as he eyeballed
the back of Mick’s head like a target. Mick was laughing even louder than Kane, sounding like a donkey about to give birth—or more like an ass. If it wasn’t for him, Jackson would’ve been in bed right now, not freezing his nuts off. Their mum had banned them from using the Xbox, shooing them out of the house because Mick had kept shouting at the game’s referee like he was a real person, bellowing that he was cheating.

  They came to the end of the walkway and turned left, walking a few houses down before stopping in front of a white fence, its letterbox declaring that it was 5 Abbey Road. Kane was staring at the fence like it was a hot naked woman with tits the size of his head. He whipped the lid off his spray can, practically drooling over the empty canvas laid out before him.

  Jackson scanned the property. An outside light illuminated the front porch and part of the lawn, which, like the fence, was pristine. And although there were no lights on inside, there was a Nissan Sentra parked in the driveway, screaming that the owner was home.

  “We should go,” Jackson said, nervously. He didn’t mind Kane spraying graffiti-laden walkways, even factory walls, but this felt wrong.

  Kane shook both the can and his head, sending his dreadlocks flying. “Not a chance. No matter how many times I tag this dude’s fence he always paints over it.” He sneered. “I reckon he’s taunting me.”

  Jackson rolled his eyes, Kane thinking everything revolved around him.

  Mick started giggling again, like the big fat girl he was. He fumbled with his own spray can, throwing the lid at Kane, missing him completely. He stopped giggling and shoved Kane out of the way, spraying the fence instead. The paint went everywhere, grass, fence, letterbox, and the surrounding space, even a bit getting on Kane. Kane snapped at Mick, but still gave up his spot, shifting further down the fence. After a few minutes, he stepped back to gaze at his tag as though it was a masterpiece worthy of being put in the Auckland Art Gallery. Mick stepped in front of Kane and started spraying over it.

  Kane shoved Mick away. “Don’t touch my tag, you prick!”

  Sniggering, Mick sprayed Kane’s chest. Kane jumped back and started wiping the front of his hoodie, smearing the paint across the grey material, making it worse. He swore and looked back up to Mick.

  “This is my favourite hoodie!” he yelled.

  He lifted his can, looking like he was going to spray Mick, but before he could a loud shout rented the air. Jackson’s gaze whipped to the source. A blonde girl was staring out a window at them, hollering, “Taggers!” at the top of her lungs. She looked familiar, but right here, right now, he couldn’t place where he’d seen her, what she was screaming scrambling his brain cells.

  More lights went on in the house, the front door flying open a few seconds later. Jackson’s face dropped as an old dude in a dressing gown, pyjamas, and slippers barrelled down the front steps with a baseball bat.

  “I’ve finally caught you, you little bastards!” the man hollered.

  Kane took off while Mick remained, grinning at the man, totally clueless of how dangerous the situation was, the booze affecting his judgement.

  Jackson grabbed his brother’s arm, shouting, “Run!”

  Mick did. Jackson let go of his arm and sprinted ahead of him. Mick followed, though too slowly. Kane stopped further up Abbey Road, yelling at Mick to hurry the fuck up. Jackson glanced over his shoulder as his brother fell further back, the booze making Mick sluggish and unsteady on his feet, not to mention he was too big to run fast.

  “Mick, hurry up!” Jackson shouted, now panicking as the old guy gained on his brother. “He’s right behind you!”

  Mick continued to run slowly, huffing away. The man yelled at him to stop, then raised his bat.

  “No!” Jackson screamed as the man swung at Mick, the bat landing across the back of his brother’s head with a loud crack.

  Kane screamed out too, reflecting Jackson’s horror as they both watched Mick stumble and collapse to the ground. No longer concerned for his own safety, Jackson charged at his brother’s attacker. He lowered his head and rammed into the man’s stomach before he could raise the bat again. The man fell backwards, hitting the ground hard, the bat slipping from his grip, clattering against the concrete footpath. Jackson fell on top of him, causing the man to yell out. Jackson quickly scrambled off him and grabbed the bat. Behind him, boots pounded the pavement, the rhythmic thud stopping abruptly. He turned to see Kane bobbing down in front of Mick. Blood was mixed into Mick’s brown hair, his brother not moving. Kane turned him over. Mick didn’t respond, instead staring up at the night sky with lifeless eyes.

  Kane looked up at Jackson with a shocked expression. “I think he’s dead,” he choked out.

  Jackson cried out, “No!” and dropped down next to Mick. He let go of the bat and started frantically pushing on his brother’s chest. “Get up, Mick! Get up!”

  Kane swiped at his eyes, crying and shaking his head. “He’s dead, he’s dead.”

  “No!” Jackson yelled louder, not willing to give up. One hit, one hit! It couldn’t have killed him. “Get up! Get up!” he repeated over and over again, his brother too big, too full of life to be gone just like that.

  “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.” Kane leaned across Mick’s large body, wrapping his arms around him, stopping Jackson from pushing on his chest.

  A moan came from behind Jackson. He glanced over his shoulder as his brother’s killer pushed to his feet on unsteady legs. Jackson grabbed the bat, also pushing to his feet, squeezing the bat so hard it hurt his knuckles.

  “You killed my brother!” he shouted. “You killed Mick!”

  The man’s startled gaze shifted to Mick. Jackson had seen him before, but wasn’t sure where. He looked to be in his fifties, with ordinary features and chunky glasses, a chunky body too, his belly slightly rounded.

  “I didn’t mean to,” the man replied.

  His voice was more familiar than his face, Jackson recognising it from church. He had to listen to the droll voice every Sunday when his mum dragged him to church. He never paid attention, usually playing on his games console until his mum took it away. The guy was one of the psalm readers, a good law abiding killer.

  Jackson raised the bat and swung it at the man’s face.

  2

  Sarah

  Sarah stared out her bedroom window. It had been ten minutes since she’d screamed, ‘Taggers!’ and her father still hadn’t returned. Not a lot of time, but still too long for her, the streets not safe at night. Although he had a baseball bat, she was now concerned that the taggers had hurt him.

  When she’d first looked out, she hadn’t been wearing her glasses and couldn’t see their faces. All she’d seen were three forms hovering over her fence, one of them massive. He’d been laughing as he sprayed the fence, which had made Sarah furious. Her father took pride in their property, spending hours on making it look nice. Unlike the majority of their neighbours, he refused to let the graffiti remain. Practically every weekend he was out there painting over it, like this morning, when he was meant to take her to a cross-country event.

  Sarah drew the curtains, quickly changing out of her nightie and into her track pants and sweatshirt, pulling on her trainers before heading into the lounge. The lights were on, blanketing the tidy room with bright light, the interior a wash of beige and cream. Her mother was dressed in her blue dressing gown and biting her thumbnail, staring at the doorway as though willing Sarah’s dad to walk through it.

  Sarah pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “I’m going to check on Dad.”

  Her mum’s gaze shot to Sarah. She looked tired, with dark rings under her eyes, her normally tidy crop of greying-blonde hair a mess around her face. They’d been in bed when the taggers had attracted Sarah’s attention. If the party down the road hadn’t been so noisy, she probably would’ve been fast asleep, oblivious to what the taggers were doing.

  “You can’t go out,” her mother said, “it’s too dangerous.”

  “But it’s b
een fifteen minutes; Dad should be back by now.”

  “He’s got a bat, he’ll be okay.”

  Sarah shook her head. Her mum was worrying her more, the tone of her voice and her expression contradicting her words. She was just as scared as Sarah was, only more scared to go outside, her mum quite timid.

  “I’m still going to check on him,” Sarah said, going for the door.

  “No, Sarah!” Her mum rushed forward, blocking it. “You know it’s not safe at this time of night.”

  “Then we can take the car.”

  Her mum shook her head. “No, he’ll be back soon. Just go to bed, everything will be all okay.”

  Sarah had a feeling that everything was far from okay, though her mother was right about one thing, their neighbourhood wasn’t safe at night. The year before, a girl from her old school had been chased by a gang of boys and stabbed, while only a few weeks ago a liquor store owner had been shot, leaving behind a grieving widow and two children. The neighbourhood had risen up over it, a crowd of concerned citizens protesting the senseless violence, a violence that was woven into the fabric of their society.

  Sarah glanced at her watch. Another five minutes had passed. Something was definitely wrong, otherwise her dad would be home by now.

  She refocused on her mum. “But there were three of them, and one of the taggers was huge. Even with a bat, he could overpower Dad.”

  Her mum covered her mouth, the concern in her eyes reflecting the concern in Sarah’s heart. “I’ve called the police,” she said through her hand, and as if the police had heard her, sirens erupted down the street.

  Sarah shot over to the window, parting the curtains to look outside. An ambulance drove past, closely followed by a police car. Fear struck her, so hard that it knocked her back a step.

  Her mum sobbed out, “No!” without a doubt thinking the same thing as Sarah.

  Dad was hurt!

  That was it, she went for the door, pushing past her mother to get outside. Ignoring her mum’s screams of “Come back, Sarah!” she sprinted across the lawn, heading in the direction her father had gone. At fifteen, she was good at running. It was what had gotten her into Wera High, a welcome escape from the poorer Claydon school she was in zone for. Her parents had transferred her after constant bullying. Sarah had never understood why she’d gotten picked on since she didn’t think she stuck out in any way. She wasn’t ugly or pretty, just plain, someone who people would normally walk past without noticing, like how it was in Wera, where only her friends paid her attention.